(no subject)
I want to live in a circular glass room, never quite having a corner to hide in, even when i pulled my knees to my chest, i'd still have to look at the world around me, seeing that things not so sad do in fact exist.
crippling depression? nope
fear for a future in which i get a chance to hurt my own people.
inspiring nothing but mistrust of myself the past couple weeks, not so sure i am the "good guy" my friends chalk me up to be, pretty sure i need a steady diet of valium and nurses in paper white costumes to push me around, then discharge me with a "clean bill of health"
medical documents make me feel better, thanks mom.
like the last time i tried to kill myself, and they put me in that bed, where an old man came and watched "naked gun" with me, and looked so embarassed whenever anything lewd or vulgur happened. he did not sign up for that.
and when i left, wearing shitty paper shoes, everyone on the staff talked about "how bright a future i have"
i just need that sort of support, or something.
ew. i complain too much.
i am getting published in something half-tangible, the Central Review, which will come with a reading in the library, and maybe a little recognition? why the fuck do i need recognition?
i can't write what i want to, but i'm not that mad about what has been coming out. reading about billy burroughs just makes me sad, the new book of his letters and journals "cursed from birth" just seems to show another direction my life could take. i don't see myself dying from liver failure in my thirties, more his fall from grace. i don't want to be a mediocre writer. ew.
fuck this post. it is staying up as a record of my messy moods.
spring... come soon.
crippling depression? nope
fear for a future in which i get a chance to hurt my own people.
inspiring nothing but mistrust of myself the past couple weeks, not so sure i am the "good guy" my friends chalk me up to be, pretty sure i need a steady diet of valium and nurses in paper white costumes to push me around, then discharge me with a "clean bill of health"
medical documents make me feel better, thanks mom.
like the last time i tried to kill myself, and they put me in that bed, where an old man came and watched "naked gun" with me, and looked so embarassed whenever anything lewd or vulgur happened. he did not sign up for that.
and when i left, wearing shitty paper shoes, everyone on the staff talked about "how bright a future i have"
i just need that sort of support, or something.
ew. i complain too much.
i am getting published in something half-tangible, the Central Review, which will come with a reading in the library, and maybe a little recognition? why the fuck do i need recognition?
i can't write what i want to, but i'm not that mad about what has been coming out. reading about billy burroughs just makes me sad, the new book of his letters and journals "cursed from birth" just seems to show another direction my life could take. i don't see myself dying from liver failure in my thirties, more his fall from grace. i don't want to be a mediocre writer. ew.
fuck this post. it is staying up as a record of my messy moods.
spring... come soon.